


Competition

by poetroe



Category: Black Panther (2018), Marvel, Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Fighting, M'Baku wants to win everything, M/M, Making Out, Wrestling
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-28
Updated: 2018-05-28
Packaged: 2019-05-14 20:57:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,811
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14777114
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/poetroe/pseuds/poetroe
Summary: 5 times when M’Baku is ready to FIGHT + 1 time he is not.(basically M’Baku makes a competition out of literally everything because he’s dramatic like that)





	Competition

**Author's Note:**

> I have another fic that I should've worked on but guess what this little idea suddenly took precedence!! Anyways I loved the dynamic and potential these two had in Black Panther & Infinity War and needed more. The 5 + 1 format seemed like a perfect way to do just that!
> 
> To clarify: 1 is before, 2 is during and the others are after the events of Black Panther. Also Infinity War like never happened!!!! Have fun!

1

As next in line to become the leader of the Jabari tribe, M’Baku knows that it is his responsibility to join his father when he goes to the tribe council meetings. Just because it’s something he has to do, doesn’t mean he has to like it, though. The Jabari are never included in these meetings unless the matter concerns Wakandan national security, a simple indication of how their tribe is seen by the others. It shines a light on their seclusion directly. In other words, meetings like these seem to divide their tribes more than it brings them together and that is something M’Baku hates. The other Wakandan tribes do not want anything to do with the Jabari, not really.

His father doesn’t see it the same way. Although no Jabari likes the other tribes, it’s his father’s opinion that there exists a kind of dependency between them and the others.

M’Baku scoffs. They are almost at the room where the meeting will take place when his father stops him. M’Baku turns around—although he is only fifteen, he can already look his father in the eyes.

“What is it, papa?” he asks.

“I am afraid you cannot join me in here, my son,” his father answers. M’Baku frowns. Why did his father ask him to come to the meeting if he wasn’t even allowed to go in?

“Father—” Just as M’Baku wants to ask his father for an explanation to all this, a hand pats his shoulder.

“It’s alright,” says the boy who has just invaded M’Baku’s space, “he can wait with me.” M’Baku is sure he must be two heads taller than this kid, but he doesn’t appear to be intimidated by that in the slightest. Also, instead of looking at him and his father with the disgust and concern that is usually directed at them, the boy just observes them with a kind and polite smile.

“I do not know who you are,” M’Baku says, forcefully removing the boys hand, “but I must let you know that I bore easily.”

“My name is T’Challa, son of king T’Chakka,” the boy says. “And the same goes for me, actually.” The grin on T’Challa’s face spells all the kinds of trouble M’Baku loves, and despite everything, he smirks.

“I hope your king father has taught you to be a warrior then, T’Challa,” M’Baku tells the boy while giving his father a nod and marching back the way they came in, “because the only way to entertain me is with a good fight.” T’Challa grins and runs a few paces in order to catch up to him.

They wrestle in the red dirt outside until the sun starts to set, painting the city a bright orange, and the meeting is adjourned. Out of all of their matches, T’Challa has won the most. M’Baku tells him he forgot to count, but the knowledge that the prince beat him sits uncomfortably with M’Baku. Next time, he tells himself.

Next time he would beat the prince. Panthers are surely no match for the might of the gorilla.

 

2

Defeat tastes bitter. M’Baku runs his tongue over his lips; it’s the metallic taste of his own blood. Disgraceful. He and the other Jabari warriors are traveling up the mountain in complete silence. M’Baku doesn’t mind it; he welcomes it, even. The quiet allows him to trace back the fight in complete detail.

T’Challa is a skilled fighter. M’Baku has known that since they were young. Skilled, but not often skilled enough to beat him. Where had he gone wrong this time? M’Baku thinks about the look in T’Challa’s eyes when he’d approached the prince. Calm and collected, as always the complete opposite of M’Baku’s own ferocity in a fight.

They had exchanged blows—matching each other, as always. T’Challa sweeping and kicking his legs out at every opportunity, M’Baku punching and swinging his knobkerrie. Their fighting styles were well-matched, but different like day and night.

M’Baku recalls the moment where he’d had T’Challa dangling in the air, crushing him between his arms and knobkerrie, made with the sacred wood, blessed by Hanuman. M’Baku grunts and his hand clutches the club a little tighter. He should have done something then, something more than just headbutt the prince and give him a bloody nose. Panthers are tricky and will not go down simply because blood is drawn. They fight back, stronger. Maybe he should have thrown him down, or off the ledge, into the water. Maybe he should have pushed the sharp tip of his staff into T’Challa’s thigh, instead of his shoulder. Maybe he should not have yielded when the prince had held him in a headlock.

M’Baku’s boots drag through the snow. T’Challa has won this time. M’Baku will win the next.

 

3

It’s M’Baku’s first time outside of Wakanda, but he could not care less. If anything, he would rather go back home. But when the king asks you to join him on a trip to the United Nations, you can’t really refuse. Especially when you’re friends. M’Baku frowns as T’Challa is in the middle of making his address, all the way from the stand in the center of the plenary chamber.

Maybe they are not friends yet. But M’Baku believes they can be, with a little effort, a little time. M’Baku sighs as he lets his eyes roam over the room, regarding all the representatives of the different countries. A little friendly competition would go a long way, right?

“Hey,” M’Baku whispers when T’Challa sits back down next to him. “These people are boring me. Let’s arm wrestle.” T’Challa looks at him like he’s crazy.

“What are you, a child? We are here to discuss serious matters, M’Baku,” T’Challa softly chides him. M’Baku rolls his eyes.

“Come on, just once. But if you think you cannot beat me, that’s fine, too.” He smirks at the frown that has appeared on his king’s face. T’Challa closes his eyes and brings a palm to his face. Just when M’Baku has accepted that T’Challa has definitely outgrown his competitive side, he sets down his elbow, hand open in invitation.

“Only once,” T’Challa emphasizes.

“That’s all I will need,” M’Baku says. He sets down his arm, clutches T’Challa’s warm hand with his own and starts exerting pressure.

It’s not an easy win, because it’s T’Challa and nothing is ever easy when it comes to him, but it’s a win, which is the only thing that counts for M’Baku. Well, maybe not the only thing. Because if the playful smile that is directed at him when he silently celebrates his victory means anything, it’s that they are becoming closer than M’Baku had ever thought possible.

 

4

“Do you know what I would like to do right now?”

M’Baku looks over to where T’Challa is sitting at his desk. He’s leaning backwards in his seat, looking more worn out than M’Baku has ever seen him, tilting his head backwards as if putting enough space between himself and his problems will make them disappear.

“Resign?” M’Baku answers with a chuckle. T’Challa mirrors his grin as he stands up to join M’Baku, where he is sitting near the high windows.

“Perhaps. Sometimes I think I ought to let Shuri take the throne.” The king leans his arms on his knees as he looks out over the Golden City. M’Baku pats him on the shoulder.

“Please. That little troublemaker would run Wakanda into the ground,” he says. “You are the best ruler we could have.” T’Challa turns around to look at him, surprised.

“Not yourself, M’Baku?” M’Baku chuckles again.

“Although the throne might have been my ambition once,” he answers, “you are a good leader. Your views are in accordance with those of your people. So unless you forget how to fight for them, I see no reason why I should sit on the throne, instead of you.” His words make T’Challa smile and M’Baku can feel the newfound trust that exists between them solidify evermore.

“It is funny you should bring up my ability to fight,” T’Challa says as he stands up, holding his hand out for M’Baku to take. “I was just about to challenge you to a sparring match. What do you say?” M’Baku grins. There really is only one answer to that request.

They fight like they had the day of the challenge. No holds barred, no punches pulled. M’Baku’s lip is bleeding from a particularly vicious kick, but it evens out because T’Challa’s nose is dripping red in the dust from a solid uppercut. They continue like that, exchanging blows and kicks equally.

After a while, M’Baku can feel the both of them slowing down. The fast-paced rhythm of their fight is succumbing to the bruises on M’Baku’s legs and chest, and the ones on T’Challa’s stomach and shoulder. M’Baku will not back down, though. Wiping the sweat from his brow, he squares up and lunges at T’Challa once again.

The fight ends with both of them falling on their backs, simultaneously. Just as M’Baku had hit T’Challa in the face with a balled fist, the king had rolled with the punch and swiftly swept M’Baku’s legs out from under him. M’Baku is heaving in the dust now, trying to catch his breath from having it slammed out of his chest when he was thrown to the ground, straight on his back. He turns his head and sees T’Challa doing the same, while staring up at the darkening sky.

“So who wins this one, M’Baku?” T’Challa asks him, sounding as out of breath as M’Baku feels, but with a challenging smile on his face. M’Baku grins and sits up. The world spins around him as he forces his body to stand.

“Me, obviously,” he says, mirroring T’Challa’s grin, “I stood up the fastest.” T’Challa snorts and starts laughing.

Joining the king in his laughter, M’Baku lets himself collapse back in the dirt, next to T’Challa. Bloody and bruised, they are both giggling like children as the sun starts to set on Wakanda.

 

5

Although the M’Baku has to admit that T’Challa’s Golden City looks pretty when it shines in the sunlight, there is nowhere where he feels more at home than here, in the mountains. A cold wind hits his face and M’Baku revels in it. The climate of the mountain is just right for him. The city, the borderlands, even all the places he’s visited outside of Wakanda never feel as right as this. M’Baku looks over his shoulder. T’Challa is trailing a couple of steps behind, trudging through the snow with maximum effort. M’Baku wondered if the king felt cold at all, yet.

“T’Challa,” he says, stopping and allowing the king to catch up. “Will you tell me when you are cold? Or does your pride prevent you from doing that?” T’Challa shoots him a worn out half-smile, devoid of the energy that usually goes into it when it’s directed at M’Baku. M’Baku frowns.

“I will,” T’Challa answers, “but not now, or anytime soon. I’m not cold at all.” Just as those words leave his mouth, a gust of freezing wind engulfs them. M’Baku shivers once before huddling his bear pelt closer around himself, then looks at T’Challa skeptically.

“Do you expect me to believe that?” he asks, looking the king up and down. Apparently, that morning T’Challa had decided his regular black linen attire would suffice the trek up a snowy mountain. The king had been silently shivering all day. M’Baku rolls his eyes. “Here,” he says, while taking off the pelt and securing it around T’Challa’s shoulders. The action brings them closer together and suddenly M’Baku can see all the details of T’Challa’s face. There’s a light scar running down his cheek, a small one horizontally across the bridge of his nose, and another one just below his eyebrow. The last one is nearly unnoticeable, but M’Baku is sure that one is his, given to T’Challa when they wrestled as kids, when he had pushed the prince down and his face had hit a rock. The bleeding had made it look worse than it had been, is what T’Challa told him.

“Thank you,” T’Challa says, in what is almost a whisper. His words shake M’Baku out of his reverie. Quickly securing the last clasp, M’Baku steps backwards. “Are you sure you don’t need this yourself?” T’Challa asks, ever the unselfish king. M’Baku shakes his head and smiles.

“I was raised on this mountain, remember?” M’Baku says. “The blood of the Jabari runs hot. We do not get cold easily.” Without waiting for T’Challa, he turns around and starts walking again. Though it is true that M’Baku rarely gets cold, he knows that in this instance, it might have less to do with his Jabari blood, and more with the fact that their close proximity just now caused a rush of heat to his cheeks.

“If you say so,” T’Challa answers with a grin, like he knows exactly what is happening here. It’s infuriating.

“Alright, panther, enough talking,” M’Baku growls. “Race me to the top, instead.” T’Challa’s grin only widens.

 

+1

“M’Baku, I need your help with something.” M’Baku drowsily opens his eyes from where he was napping in his chair. The sun will not be up for several more hours, yet M’Baku, T’Challa, and the rest of the Wakandan delegation have already left for a summit in Tokyo by plane. M’Baku had fallen asleep almost immediately after take-off.

“Of course, little kitten,” M’Baku answers sleepily. “What do you need?” Wiping the sleep from his eyes, M’Baku notices that T’Challa doesn’t look like his usual calm and collected self. The king is fumbling with his hands and seems to look everywhere except at M’Baku.

“So… Shuri and Nakia have a bet, apparently,” T’Challa says. “Shuri told me about it and I want to win it.” M’Baku yawns.

“Then you do what you have to do to make that happen,” he answers as he shifts to make himself comfortable again in the chair. “Can I go back to sleep now?”

“Wait!”

Before M’Baku knows what is happening, two warm hands cup his cheeks and T’Challa presses a kiss on his lips. It’s short and it takes a moment to register, because M’Baku is still half-asleep, but the moment it does he can feel the blood rush to his face.

“T’Challa!” he exclaims, suddenly wide awake. T’Challa shoots him an awkward grin, like he isn’t sure whether M’Baku is about to attack him or kiss him. Looking at their history, it could really go either way. But M’Baku has fought T’Challa so often and they’ve only kissed once, just now. Who knows when he’ll get that chance again, M’Baku thinks. He grins back at T’Challa, if only to ease the king’s rigid stance, before raising from his chair and stepping close to kiss him right back.

T’Challa’s hips feel so right beneath his hands. It brings a grin to M’Baku’s face, because the familiarity of holding him like this makes his hands twitch with the urge to lift the king up and throw him on his back. However, all thoughts of fighting are abandoned when T’Challa softly bites M’Baku’s lower lip. He really is a wonderful kisser and a part of M’Baku wonders if he ever woke up at all, because this all seems too good to be true.

A deep sigh from the other side of the plane is what breaks them apart. M’Baku, in his sleep addled state, hadn’t realized that there was anyone else awake.

“I suppose I’ll have to contact Shuri,” Nakia says, “and tell her that neither of us was right.”

“What is she talking about?” M’Baku whispers in T’Challa’s ear. The king chuckles.

“The bet I was telling you about, M’Baku. They bet on how long it would take before either one of us would make a move, or kiss the other. It is like you said, I did what I needed to do, now neither of them is right.” T’Challa looks the definition of the cat that got the cream, with his satisfied grin and twinkling eyes. M’Baku smiles and puts his arm around T’Challa’s shoulders.

“I do know how much you like to win, kitten,” he says, “though I have never minded it as little as I do now.” With a wide grin, he presses another kiss to T’Challa’s cheek, ruffles his hair once and goes back to his chair. M’Baku looks back up at T’Challa. “I can go back to sleep now, right?” T’Challa starts laughing and M’Baku realizes he’s definitely going to dream about the crinkles around T’Challa’s eyes and the way his entire face softens when he laughs.

“Of course,” he answers, with the widest smile M’Baku has ever seen in his life. With a content sigh, M’Baku lets himself slip back into sleep.


End file.
